I have decided to take a little break from dating to give my heart a little time to heal and build up the crunch candy shell that keeps it protected. It's a bit of a dating hiatus, if you will. Unfortunately, this means that I haven't had many interesting dating stories, of late, but that doesn't mean that I don't still have plenty of other ridiculous stories to share…my vault of hilarity and humiliation has a plethora of tales to which there is no end.
So I've been thinking…I could tell you one of the many, many, many dating stories of yor, from my single times in Buffalo and Atlanta, or I could wax philosophical about my past relationships and each bitter, dreadful, or amusing demise. I could talk about my first kiss, my first love, or other, more tawdry things, but instead, I think I'll give you…cockroaches.
Now, let me start by explaining that despite how absolutely horrible these things are, they are nothing, in my opinion, compared to rats, which is maybe why I can, at least now, consider stories involving them to be funny. Some people fear spiders, some snakes…me, I will scream and turn into a hysterical little girl at the mere sight of a rat…they terrify me to my very core in a way that I cannot begin to explain…and since squirrels are just rats with fuzzy tails - and don't even try to tell me otherwise - I'm not too fond of those things, either. But since any story involving a rat is just horrifying without any side of funny, I will instead regale you with cockroaches, instead.
To be clear, I am not talking about those little bitty things that scatter in the light and exist in building I try to avoid like the plague they carry. I'm talking about the giant, freaky cockroaches that they have down south, known as waterbugs, or Palmetto bugs…Which are actually two different things, but might as well be interchangeable, as they are both large, fast moving, and horrific. (Side note: I know way too much about these things, thanks to the time I spent living in Atlanta, and the wonder that is Wikipedia.) They are around 2 inches in length, they have wings, and they are one of the fastest running insects in the world! These things are the stuff that horror stories are made of. Generally, they live in trees, where they should always, ALWAYS stay, but on occasion, they make their way out of said trees, and into our lives.
Here is one such story.
I moved down to Atlanta, all by my little lonesome, in September of 2006. The roommate I'd lived with in Buffalo, who also happens to be my cousin, and one of the tiniest full-sized adults you'll ever meet, drove down to Atlanta with me. My moving truck (a 'you pack it, we ship it" service) was waiting for us when we got there. If you have ever been to Atlanta, you know how hilly it is. My complex was no exception. Upon arrival, we discovered that the genius truck driver had parked the truck at least 50 yards DOWNHILL from my apartment…and left us no dolly. Being the very inventive gals that we are, we managed to move every last box, a very heavy recliner, and even my giant sofa using nothing more than our girly brawn and a desk chair on wheels which had been chewed down to almost nothing by my cat. Of course, we couldn't just move everything right into my narrow shoebox, because at some point between me packing it and them shipping it, someone added a couple hundred ants to the mix, and I refused to bring anything into the apartment until it was thoroughly shaken out.
Eventually, we moved everything in and started to explore the area. That's when I realized something.
I was on the WRONG side of town.
It had been a whirlwind move, selling my house, moving everything 1000 miles, and finding a new apartment, all in a very short time. I knew I wanted to live in the city and set my sights on an area called Midtown, but in my haste I ended up in a very beautiful, very expensive, very small and narrow apartment in a gated community on the WRONG side of Midtown. Actually, I was on the wrong side of a street that kind of cut through, separating the trendy, fun half from the shoot-you-in-the-face-for-looking-funny half. I was on the latter side of the street called Ponce de Leon. (Fun fact for my northern friends – they do not pronounce it the fancy way that we all learned in school. They pronounce is pawns-duh-lee-yawn. Drove me nuts.) Outside of my very lovely gated community was a Publix grocery store, where large scary-ass dudes stood outside the entrance after dark, flashing guns and drugs, in case you were in the market for either, while picking up your bread and milk. Around the corner was a holding center, and below my balcony was the parking lot of the Civic Center, where drug dealers and prostitutes would have a screaming turf battle every evening as they both tried to sell their wares.
It was a lovely place.
But that was all part of the experience, right? I wanted something new, something different…and you couldn't get much more different than that.
My cousin left and my mom flew down to bring me my cat. As we drove to my apartment, my mother was far from pleased at what she saw, but she was kind enough to keep most of her comments to herself as I tried to be brave and talk about how happy and excited I was. Eventually, though, I broke down, admitting that I hated the neighborhood and couldn't stay there. The next day we trudged back out into the huge, strange city, where, by the way, four right turns does NOT equal a square, and found a bigger, better, cheaper apartment in a much safer part of town.
That night, we got some food and settled in to start re-packing the apartment as voices from the parking lot below rose up and in through the single open window, a distant chorus of curse words drifting in on the breeze. Wanting to get a little more fresh air into the tiny apartment, I reached out and opened the balcony door, just an inch, maybe two, when something small and black ran in, scurried past my feet, and hid behind the couch.
I screamed. I screamed like a helpless girl in a horror movie. A mouse! A mouse had run into the apartment! At least, I thought it was a mouse…It was about the size of a small mouse, dark in color, and moved very fast. I stared at my cat, waiting for her to do her predatory cat thing and pounce, but she simply glared back, bored and annoyed at my antics. I called my mother out from the bedroom, and she took the three step trek into the living room to find me standing on a chair, clutching a shoe in horror.
"There is a mouse behind the couch!" I shrieked.
Being the fearless woman that she is, she pulled the couch out, caught quick sight of the creature before it darted back under, and then proceeded to let out a scream of her own and jump up onto another nearby chair.
"It's not a mouse. It's a giant bug!" she insisted.
Well, once I knew it wasn't a mouse, I was fine. I calmly climbed down from my perch and gave the cat one last longing look. When it became apparent that she was interested in taking this one on, I handed my mother another shoe and gave her directions.
"I'm going to pull the other side of the couch out and try to smash it. If it runs toward you, just jump down and hit it with the shoe, hard."
She didn't look convinced, but agreed. Pretending to be far braver than I really am, I clutched my shoe in one hand, yanked the couch out with the other, and there it was…the biggest cockroach I'd ever seen. I stared down as it glared back up at me, a sneer on its little roach face, and our eyes locked, the bug just daring me to squish it. I took a deep breath, and in the name of single, independent women everywhere, I charged forward, ready for the kill.
Unfortunately, the cockroach ran, too, right toward my mother.
"Hit it!" I screamed, trying to come around the other side. "Hit it now!"
And she did. Jumping down from the chair, she slammed the shoe down on the roach, heel first, and we heard a crunch. She hit it again, for good measure, and I let out a sigh of relief. My mother, though, wasn't quite done. Her eyes wild, her arm swinging, she smashed the shoe down again and again, yelling in a high pitched voice, "help me! Help me! Help me! Help me!" The words were a steady rhythm with each smack of the shoe.
I yelled for her to stop, my voice finally breaking through as the pummeling came to an end, and we both looked down at the tiny black remnants of the cockroach, most of which had been smashed down into the carpet, along with a dark, inky pulp.
Tossing our shoes aside, we sat, physically and emotionally exhausted, and I wondered for maybe the tenth time that week, if I'd made a mistake moving down south. The next couple of years would be trying at times, but I would eventually answer that question with a resounding NO! I did not make a mistake. Though I ultimately did not stay in Atlanta, that move ended up changing my life and making me who I am today. I would later have several more run-ins with the dreaded water bug, my shoe a handy weapon in the war, but that night I just pulled myself up, dusted myself off, and searched Google for the best way to get smashed cockroach stains out of the carpet.
